


by the light of this star

by lightningspire



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Drabble Collection, FFxivWrite2020, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Multi, Original Character(s), Patch 5.3: Reflections in Crystal Spoilers, Tumblr: FFXIVwrite, Unnamed Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:54:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 18,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26242237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightningspire/pseuds/lightningspire
Summary: Yours is a long road, my friend, and it stretches on to places beyond imagining.➤ day 30; SPLINTER; by the light of this star (we are laid to rest).Azem-centric, 5.3.Wherever the Warrior of Darkness walks, fate shall surely follow.(Drabble collection for #FFXIVWrite2020. Spoilers for everything up to Patch 5.3.)
Relationships: Ardbert/G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light, Ardbert/Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Ardbert, G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light, Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)/Original Character(s)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 46
Collections: #FFxivWrite2020 Final Fantasy 30 Day Writing Challenge





	1. the unending journey

**Author's Note:**

> [a writing challenge](https://ffxiv-write.carrd.co)! oh boy let's see if i actually do it every day. as per the nature of writing challenges, i'll be posting these soon after i've written them with little to no editing. spoilers and spelling mistakes abound!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tried my best to mark each summary with who the drabble is about and around what part in the story it takes place in (2.0, 3.0, etc, etc.). as a fair warning, some of these jump around from time to time, make references to events in the future. so just assume that nothing is safe from spoilers ;)
> 
> there some recurring plotlines at play here: one with an unnamed warrior of light, an interpretation of the meteor survivor, set in the canonical timeline. one with a group of oc wols, lead by **l'rahnu nehm** , set in the timeline of black rose.
> 
>  **l'rahnu nehm:** seeker miqo'te from limsa lominsa, WAR/NIN. the leader of a group of blessed warriors, informally known as the **dark luminaries**. she's reckless and hotheaded but has a good nature and endless heart.
> 
>  **weiss lethvrasir:** drahn from gatetown, kholusia. WAR. l'rahnu's first counterpart. he's shy, prudish and easily flustered, though has a lot of pent up anger from his years spent at the feet of the free eulmorans.

**TABLE OF CONTENTS**

|||

**➤ day 1; CRUX;[here at memory's end.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26242237/chapters/63874681)**

> _WOL-centric, Post-5.3, Second Person POV._
> 
> The Crystal Tower is an enigma, as are you.

**➤ day 2; SWAY;[don't let me live with half a heart.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26242237/chapters/63911188)**

> _Ardbert & WOL, 5.2._
> 
> The Warrior of Darkness doesn't sit well with powerlessness.

**➤ day 3; MUSTER;[who calls to me in my hour of need?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26242237/chapters/63962968)**

> _L'rahnu & co. [OC], 1.x._
> 
> There are those who lived to tell the tale of the Seventh Umbral Calamity.

**➤ day 4; CLINCH;[a long fall.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26242237/chapters/64055635)**

> _G'raha-centric, Pre-5.0, Doomed Timeline._
> 
> G'raha Tia is a chronicle in the making, a chronicle for those who would not live to see a better future.

**➤ day 5; MATTER OF FACT;[always outside her reach.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26242237/chapters/64106152)**

> _Ryne-centric, Post-5.3._
> 
> Ryne works tirelessly to secure the safety of her future, starting by training herself.

**➤ day 6; BESTOW [FREE PROMPT];[you'll be here after the storm.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26242237/chapters/64784302)**

> _Ryne & WOL, Post-5.3._
> 
> Delivery incoming! Addressed to: one Oracle of Light!

**➤ day 7; NONAGENARIAN;[prayers whispered and answered.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26242237/chapters/64168108)**

> _Exarch & Ardbert, Pre-5.0._
> 
> The Crystal Exarch has always been a fan of fairy tales.

**➤ day 8; CLAMOR;[from heavens above.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26242237/chapters/64222459)**

> _L'rahnu & co. [OC], 1.x._
> 
> The voices of Carteneau are calling L'rahnu from afar.

**➤ day 9; LUSH;[satisfaction guaranteed!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26242237/chapters/64260910)**

> _WOL-centric, Post-5.3._
> 
> No one can quite resist the allure of the Beehive.

**➤ day 10; AVAIL;[fight for naught (fight for everything)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26242237/chapters/64314508)** [.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26242237/chapters/64314508)

> _Ardbert & WOL, 5.2._
> 
> Even in death, Ardbert can't stop himself from being the Ascian's favored prey.

**➤ day 11; ULTRACREPIDARIAN;[tête-à-tête, cœur-à-cœur.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26242237/chapters/64377814)**

> _L'rahnu & co. [OC], 2.x._
> 
> The life of a conjurer isn't for everyone, L'rahnu least of all.

**➤ day 12; TOOTH AND NAIL;[bit by bit.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26242237/chapters/64406929)**

> _Exarch-centric, 5.3._
> 
> When all is said and done, the Exarch would ask a favor of you.

**➤ day 13; VITALITY [FREE PROMPT];[ghost in your arms.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26242237/chapters/64455394)**

> _L'rahnu & co., 5.0, Doomed Timeline._
> 
> This is a fruitless endeavor. This is an exercise in accepting death.

**➤ day 14; PART;[ghost with no home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26242237/chapters/64498435)** [.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26242237/chapters/64498435)

> _L'rahnu & co. [OC], 5.0, Doomed Timeline._
> 
> There are those who lived to tell the tale of the Eighth Umbral Calamity.

**➤ day 15; ACHE;[you and i (and everything in between).](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26242237/chapters/64575934)**

> _[OC], 4.x, Second Person POV._
> 
> You never thought you'd hold someone else like this.

**➤ day 16; LUCUBRATION;[keeper of the lilacs.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26242237/chapters/64621525)**

> _Ardbert & WOL, Post-5.3._
> 
> The Warrior of Darkness' favorite moments are the small ones in between.

**➤ day 17; FADE;[hollow echoes in my ears.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26242237/chapters/64690360)**

> _L'rahnu & co. [OC], 5.0, Doomed Timeline._
> 
> L'rahnu wonders what yet remains on this broken star.

**➤ day 18; PANGLOSSIAN;[and yet, it remains unwritten.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26242237/chapters/64713688)**

> _WOL-centric, 5.x._
> 
> There's a young woman in Norvrandt who awaits a letter from the other side.

**➤ day 19; WHERE THE HEART IS;[a baker's dozen.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26242237/chapters/64729270)**

> _Ardbert & G'raha & WOL, Post-5.3._
> 
> Expressing their gratitude to G'raha is a mortifying ordeal for the Warrior of Darkness.

**➤ day 20; TRANSITORY [FREE PROMPT];[unto the morning light.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26242237/chapters/64772845)**

> _Ardbert & Exarch, 5.x._
> 
> In the morning sun, Ardbert wonders how long he can simply lie like this.

**➤ day 21; FOIBLES;[old blood, new blood.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26242237/chapters/64825921)**

> _G'raha & Krile, 5.3, WOL POV._
> 
> Rivalry brews among the Students of Baldesion, the same as ever.

**➤ day 22; ARGY-BARGY;[to whom it may concern.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26242237/chapters/64873744)**

> _L'rahnu & co. [OC], 5.0, Doomed Timeline._
> 
> The end of the world is no place to be keeping secrets.

**➤ day 23; SHUFFLE;[with some gil to spare.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26242237/chapters/64917142)**

> _Ardbert & G'raha, Post-5.3._
> 
> Some errands are better left in the hands of two.

**➤ day 24; BEAM;[home sweet home.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26242237/chapters/64963030)**

> _Weiss & co. [OC], 5.0, Doomed Timeline._
> 
> A lost memory exists somewhere among the soul.

**➤ day 25; WISH;[as we once were (as we shall ever be).](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26242237/chapters/65000080)**

> _L'rahnu & Weiss [OC], 5.0, Doomed Timeline._
> 
> L'rahnu learns to adjust after the process of Rejoining.

**➤ day 26; WHEN PIGS FLY;[rest for the weary.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26242237/chapters/65104651)**

> _Ardbert-centric, 5.x._
> 
> Here comes a feeling Ardbert thought he'd long forgotten.

**➤ day 27; REMINISCE [FREE PROMPT];[no more goodbyes.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26242237/chapters/65105380)**

> _Ardbert & WOL, 3.4/5.0, Second Person POV._
> 
> He did everything right, and still, it came to this.

**➤ day 28; IRENIC;[from dravania with love.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26242237/chapters/65171131)**

> _Ain & Riyeh [OC], 3.x/5.0, First Person POV._
> 
> We do our best to salvage letters ripped in the tides of war.

**➤ day 29; PATERNAL;[heart heavy.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26242237/chapters/65193826)**

> _Ryne & WOL, Post-5.3._
> 
> The Warrior of Darkness can see beyond Ryne's brave face.

**➤ day 30; SPLINTER;[by the light of this star (we are laid to rest).](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26242237/chapters/65231635)**

> _Azem-centric, 5.3._
> 
> Wherever the Warrior of Darkness walks, fate shall surely follow.


	2. here at memory's end

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ➤ crux: a vital, basic, decisive, or pivotal point.

There are few survivors to tell of how it first began.

You know the songs, the stories. They have pierced the tongues of every bard who walks Norvrandt. Before, after, and caught in between the Flood. Each song is a different note from the last. Some somber, of an elderly Mystel who grows weary, worn and fearful of his future. Some mournful, of a Viis driven from the Rak’tika Greatwood singing eulogies for their fallen mother and their father who followed shortly after. Some songs are hopeful, of a bright-eyed Drahn, still a child, who prays for the salvation that she has never known.

You know the memoirs, the testimonies. Some speak of the Crystal Tower with a youthful fondness. Salvation comes in one color, a distinct shade of blue. Perhaps that’s why its arrival came as a welcome surprise. A color so striking, a shimmer so beautiful, that Norvrandt was convinced there was safety in its illumination. 

Some will tell you that they saw it emerged from the ground and that the very earth gave birth to a last line of defense from the sin eaters. It was Norvrandt’s way of fighting back, they say. It was Norvrandt’s way of reclaiming what could still be salvaged. What was not yet lost.

You know the love, the sorrow. Captain Lyna sits across from you, one hand cupped around a hefty glass of ale. She tells you that the Crystal Tower has been there all her life, the Exarch too. Nothing about it’s presence could be described as otherworldly, not when she has only known of one world. 

And yet here you are. You, of two worlds and two souls. You, like the Crystal Tower, sit as a beacon from a far away realm. It’s not as though the Crystal Tower had disappeared, you can see it clearly from any point in the Crystarium. And yet it feels different now, an artifact of antiquity. How wondrous that the legacy of Allag reaches so far. 

Though Lyna tries not to shed her tears, you know very well that her heart aches with an odd kind of mourning. Sadness, in the face of peace, for the only family she had ever known. You tell her that you’re sorry to leave so soon. You promise her that you won’t forget to visit her.

You know the songs, the stories—that which you have lived. The Ocular is empty when you arrive. It has been for days, months. The Crystarium guards nod in understanding, they’ve seen you come and go before.

They know _why_. He awaits you at the seat of Xande’s Throne. You chuckle to yourself and speak to him as though he can hear you. Gossip passed around empty air. You tell him that Lyna will come by again soon. A small bouquet of lilies rests at his feet and tucking inside a letter from the Captain herself. 

You smile. This time, you pluck a lily from the bouquet and tuck it into your pocket. A gift for when you return to Mor Dhona, you tell yourself. He’ll appreciate seeing it for himself.


	3. don't let me live with half a heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ➤ sway: dominating power or influence.

Thunder is already rolling by the time the Warrior of Darkness gets up. They didn't quite intend to fall asleep so suddenly after Giott's surprise visit. Certainly not after a visit with cheap bread, old ale and a rather somber downpour outside the Pendants’ windows. And yet an intense heaviness overcame them without warning. 

That heaviness is not so uncommon these days. These days more than others.

How deep does such a heaviness sit in their gut? How do they shake it off, make it go away forever? The Warrior of Darkness brings their bed sheets close to their chest, hugging it as a child would their favorite stuffed animal. They imagine wrapping their arms around another body, face buried in the folded fabric of a spine. Two hands traced invisible features, the arms and the legs. The face of the dead.

It's a wonder, feeling lonely when you're never truly alone. 

_Does it hurt more because his face is so familiar?_

It does. It stings of Ruby saltwater, of an unshakable venom inside of them. That same face looks so different now, under the dominion of someone else. They see it in the way Elidibus moves. Though the citizens of the Crystarium wouldn’t know better, the Warrior of Darkness does. His worlds of false kindness, of false promises for heroism. And yet, they’re so powerless to stop him, lest they wish to crush the dreams of every soul in the Crystarium.

In time, the people of the Crystarium—aye, of all of Norvrandt—could all be Warriors of Light. In time, they too could all be part of the grand legend that Elidibus sacrifices to Zodiark.

_Does it make you angry?_

Stupid questions, enough with it, the Warrior of Darkness thinks. He should be able to feel the anger burning in their heart. The Warrior of Darkness hugs their sheets tighter against themself, digging their nails into the fabric as if it would bleed.

_Don’t drive yourself to exhaustion another night. Worry about yourself for once, before you waste yourself worrying about me._

He’s probably right. The Warrior of Darkness wastes so much time thinking that they’re going to wake up the next morning with barely a sliver of sleep. They can’t remember the last peaceful moment they’ve had to themself. 

Elidibus’ control extends beyond the limbs of his puppet. It reaches the corners of their mind too. Much worse, it reaches there and sits inside them.

The Warrior of Darkness feels like they could always be doing more and yet fall so short of knowing what to do. There’s guilt in inaction, too. Of course, he’d reply and tell them to stop being so hard on themself. You’ve already done so much for us, he’d say. Gods, it’s the worst being berated by the spirits in your head.

A second sleep does not come easy. The thunder howls late into the night, as does the rain. The Warrior of Darkness leaves the window open, a small puddle of rainwater gathering underneath. Let the water run, they think. Another small worry for tomorrow morning. 


	4. who calls to me in my hour of need?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ➤ muster: to come together; collect; assemble; gather.

No one quite knows what to do when a frantic Elezen man rushes into the Quicksand and starts yelling about how the moon is falling.

No, he’s not a stupid drunk. Florentine is drunk, but that’s besides the point, he _swears_ that it’s getting closer. It looks bigger than it did the night before. And the night before that. He stands up on a table and stomps his feet around, mimicking the sounds of a giant explosion for all in the bar to hear. Underneath him, a rowdy Miqo’te woman, L'rahnu, and a reserved Hyur man, Baron, tease him about his ridiculous display.

The Quicksand had always been where the three friends share a good laugh, between adventuring and working small jobs for even smaller gil. This time though there’s a hint of nervousness floating about, in between their drunken cackles and clanking cups. A few groups leave the bar in a hurry. Those that remain spread whispers around the Quicksand, a small match igniting a forest fire. 

_Did you hear that, the lesser moon is falling?_

_What nonsense._

_But it might be true!_

_It does look bigger than it did yesterday!_

Explosive thunder rattles the bar around them. L'rahnu catches her drink, just before it spills into her lap. A number of patrons quickly jump to their feet and rush to the windows, to the open front door. Clustered sparks dance across the sky, dyed a dark purple from storm clouds. L'rahnu rubs her ears. The thunder keeps ringing in her head. Florentine too, he feels his whole body pounding with an invisible force. What is it that rattles in their hearts? What is it that calls out to them from afar?

Baron stares about at L'rahnu and Florentine. Only he remains unconvinced.

Without so much as a glance, the other two do not wait for him to follow. “Come on you lazy arse!” L'rahnu says, stopping only to pick up her ale. “Let’s go see what’s going on.”

More people are shouting as the three arrive outside the Gate of Thal. A handful of Hyur children run around each other, playing tag. Others watch, a melting pot of fear and awe brewing about the area. No longer whispers but a cacophony of panic, of cheering. All gathered around the growing light of the lesser moon, Dalamud.

Had Dalamud always been such a brilliant shade of red? The moon pulses with vibrant energy, beating with a life of its own. Fragments of Dalamud begin to split off from the rest, hurling towards the ground in a brilliant swirl of light. The lesser moon fractures at the seams. A cocoon for the nesting Bahamut, who's wings fill the sky with terror. 

L'rahnu is entranced. She drops her glass and several heads turn to the sound of shattering glass.

“I’ve never seen a damn starshower quite like this,” she says.

A trickle of blood runs from a cut in her foot. Florentine and Baron quickly turn to look at each other, before breaking into a—at least a little bit drunken—panic. A rush to find some gauze, or a tattered man’s sleeve would work just as well as that. A tiny pool grows under her, painting the Gate of Thal with a red smear. 

But L'rahnu does not hear them, or does not listen to them. All she hears are the distant cries from the flats of Carteneau.


	5. a long fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ➤ clinch: to settle (a matter) decisively.

There are times when it’s already too late to turn back.

In spite of the abruptness of his awakening, G’raha spends every hour of the next week combing over historical documents. The memoirs of Count Edmont Fortemps sit on a shelf in his study. To an untrained eye, it might look in just the same pristine condition as when it was first written. The pages, however, are crinkled, tearing at the edges from G'raha's desperate hands soaking in each and every word.

His hands are calloused, at least the one still made of flesh. The other hand is rough as an uncut gem. He lifts it, tries to twist his wrist, test each joint. And though it moves just as the other arm, it remains unfeeling and cold, an indescribable stiffness as if the arm were not even there. The crystal crawls all along it, spreading to corners of his back and neck in patches.

Understandably, G’raha has little time to waste, little time to be afforded for gawking at his now-immortal body. Underneath his fingers sits a series of at least twenty separate documents, all stained in scarlet. A series of delivery reports filled under the name ‘M’naago Rahz’. An inn’s guest book from the Forgotten Knight in Ishgard. Scribblings from Tataru’s personal diary. A traveler’s journal depicting the splendor of the Azim Steppe, in dedication to the Mol tribe.

It’s an eclectic collection, no doubt. But every record salvaged from the time before is as good as the last. G’raha absorbs many names, both familiar and unfamiliar to him, though connected by a single tether from beginning to end. The Warrior of Light. However grim the circumstances, G’raha smiles. He lets himself bath in his youthful nostalgia, if only for a moment. G’raha thinks of their first meeting, as he leapt dramatically from the heights of Saint Coinach’s Find. And he’s grateful too that the Warrior of Light was kind enough to tolerate him. He envisions every inch of the Warrior of Light, the pride with which they carry themself, the softness of their smile, the determination that burns in their eyes. In those moments, the rest of the world turns silent, and he can only hear himself breathing.

_Mor Dhona. The Sons of Saint Coinach. The Crystal Tower. Allagan Eyes._

A series of words turn to visions, turn to memories under his fingertips. A past forgotten amidst a bleak future.

Soon enough, it will be time to cross the rift. A heavy knot sits in his stomach. It's been sitting there since he first awoke, but now he can't ignore it.

His gamble might fail. He might die before he even reaches the other side.

But, sitting here at the table in his study, it’s too late to turn back. G’raha knows the names now. He knows the hopes. He knows the dreams. He knows that, no matter what, they’re worth saving.


	6. always outside her reach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ➤ matter of fact: something of a factual nature, as an actual occurrence.

The sound of slashing fills the training grounds of the Crystarium. A slight young woman grips a gunblade tightly in both hands, her chest heaving with every breath and her legs buckling at the knees. She stabs her gunblade into the ground and collapses. A brief moment of respite, so that she may catch her breath. 

Ryne takes the bottom of her blouse, still in her nighttime garment, and wipes the sweat off of her forehead. The gunblade, fully punctured info a bit of soil, takes a few nudges before she can withdraw it again. And just as she raises the gunblade above her head, reeling for a stab, Ryne whips her head back to the sound of a desperate voice. 

Lady Ryne, she hears calling from afar. A member of the Crystarium's guard that she does not recognize lightly jogs in her direction. A stout Drahn fellow. Dark and sunken eyes, his tail dragging behind him across the floor. Lady Ryne, he repeats and repeats, telling her that she's got the Captain worried sick, wandering from her room at such early hours in the morning.

Ryne turns to the Drahn soldier with a slight bow and tells him that she’s sorry. Such apologies are second nature for her. But the Drahn soldier simply smiles and pats her on the head. 

_Keep up the good work. You’re doing a good job. I'll be here if you need an escort back to the Pendants, Lady Ryne._

It’s not that Ryne is unfamiliar with these kinds of praises, but even now, she’s always taken aback by them. 

She is ever grateful to Captain Lyna and the Crystarium guard for acting as her caretaker. Some parts a caretaker, some parts a mentor. Of course, young orphans are not uncommon among the likes of the Crystarium, but after the departure of the Scions, the stoic Captain had all but lent Ryne her heart. Ryne often notices her out of the corner of her eye, and yet every time Ryne turns to meet her gaze, Lyna turns away. The Captain remains upon her perch, the distant watchful eye that vows to keep Ryne safe.

Ryne declines the guard’s offer for an escort. She'll be on her way shortly, she tells him. She’s sorry again for the inconvenience, she tells him. 

Hugging her gunblade like a stuffed animal, it sits protected in her arms. One part weapon, one part reminder. Reminder of a past filled with love, anguish and sorrow. Reminder of a future she is bracing herself for. 

A reminder that the Scions are never coming back. 

Part of her dreams that, one day, she will wake up and they will be waiting for her. Just outside the Pendant suites, like it always used to be.

As the manager of the suites greets her, Ryne waves back to him, waiting just a second too long. He speaks to her, though the words leave her ears as soon as they arrive. A feeling of heaviness overcomes her eyelids. It seems Ryne morning training sapped her of her energy, this day more so than most.

The Warrior of Darkness, meanwhile, descends, one hand attached to the railing while the other rubs their eyes. They let out a loud yawn and a sluggishness follows behind them with every step. The manager turns to greet them as well, the two falling into their normal routine of conversation.

The Warrior of Darkness spots Ryne from afar. A warm smile graces their face. "Sleep well?" they say, raising a hand in greeting.

Ryne smiles. “Yes, of course!," she says. "And you as well?”


	7. you'll be here after the storm (interlude)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ➤ bestow: to present as a gift; give; confer.

They have no problem spotting the young Oracle as she wanders aimlessly around the Exedra.

“Ryne!”

Ryne jumps in surprise as she turns around to see them. “Oh, the Warrior of Darkness!” She beams as her hands clap together in delight.

“Hey kiddo,” they say and playfully punch her in the arm. “I’ve been wandering up and down looking for you. It seems that our stern Captain perhaps ratted you out on this one.”

Her eyebrows furrow. “What do you mean?” she pauses and her expression sinks. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Oh, don’t give me _that_ look,” the Warrior of Darkness laughs. “Quite the contrary. Lyna’s just been telling me about all your hard work, so I had the mind to stop in and give you a little treat.”

The Warrior of Darkness retrieves a small pouch from their travel sac, made from a patterned cloth and thick rope tying the top together. Ryne’s eyes follow them in awe, a look of wonderment, and she holds out her hands with patience. She takes the pouch and shakes it. The Warrior of Darkness chuckles seeing Ryne with the pouch pressed up to her ear.

“What is it?”

“Open it up.”

The cloth gives way to a bundle of colorful candy, shaped like the shards of a distant star shower.

The Warrior of Darkness leans down and rustles her air. “A treat from the Source, it’s called _konpeitō._ I’ve always been meaning to try and make some, so it seems that the Twelve were gracious and gave me some spare time in between my deliveries.”

“Thank you,” Ryne says. She’s starting to stutter. “I, I really appreciate it!”

They recognize that hesitation on her face, so the Warrior of Darkness nudges her to try some. Ryne delicately picks up one or two of the _konpeitō_ and pops them in her mouth. With a nod, she drops any pretense of politeness and shoves a generous handful of candy into her mouth..

“It’s delicious!” she says and smiles. 

The Warrior of Darkness laughs. Her words come out muffled thanks to her full mouth.

“Of course,” they say. “It’s the least I can do.”


	8. prayers whispered and answered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ➤ nonagenarian: of the age of 90 years, or between 90 and 100 years old.

Some encounters are displaced among the tides of fate.

On occasion, the Exarch indulges himself in tales from the Cabinet of Curiosity. Tales of the scholarly kind, of course. His academic research has a time and a place. Two dedicated shelves in his study, in fact.

These tales are not those of scholars.

The Ocular is littered with a vast collection of fables illustrated for children. Despite the childishness, or perhaps because of it, the Exarch enjoys them all the same. His aching fingers trace the ridges of the paper. He’s spent nigh on 90 years in the Crystarium and has watched as the same tale becomes twisted in time. Just as the pathway grows ever larger, some stones break apart and are lost in the dirt. The Exarch is guilty too.

There were the nights that the Exarch held Lyna firmly in his lap. These selfsame books rested in his hands, as the Exarch rocked her back and forth. The origin of the Oracle of Light was her personal favorite. Everytime, she lulled to sleep. 

He enjoys them even more knowing that the figures in such fables are real. Heroes and villains forged from the same iron as the Scions and the Warrior of Darkness. He asks them about the fables too. Such are the stories that cannot be captured in simple illustrations.

The cause of the Flood is a popular tale. Every child knows it. They _must_ , for it builds the foundation of their bedtime stories and of the monsters that sleep underneath their feet. Every child learns to brace for the sin eaters. Every child learns to long for the embrace of the sunless sea.

He turns the page. Five figures cast a shadow across the page, with the wicked white looming above their heads. These are the Warriors of Light, the harbingers of Norvrandt’s destruction. The villains. 

The Exarch looks deep into the visage of Ardbert. His blue eyes are vast and empty. His armor is smeared with heaps of blood, dripping and floating across the illustration like a fluttering pixie. He grips his axe with both hands, to lunge towards the reader and cleave them in two.

Ardbert was a Warrior of Light. A walking nightmare. But even Norvrandt’s cruelest villains were loved once, and loved in turn. Hidden inside the page are not the eyes of a monster, but that of a boy. A boy who would forsake everything to save what he loved, even if it destroyed him.

No different from the Warrior of Darkness. No different from the Exarch.

The Exarch slams the book shut. Though Ardbert’s death does not linger among the pages, among the youthful dance of crayon colors, it lingers in the heart of someone who still yet lives. It lingers in the heart of Exarch, though they have not met.

But if they did meet, by some tear in the cosmos, the Exarch wonders if it is too late to say sorry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hide the prequel to a fic inside another fic. lol.


	9. from heavens above

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ➤ clamor: a loud uproar, as from a crowd of people.

L’rahnu can’t stop having visions of that day. 

It happens when she least expects, though it’s not something she could ever predict. On the streets of Ul’dah, L’rahnu grabs her head and reels from a sharp pain within. The light of Bahamut descends from above. Electric shards explode from Dalamud, each giving off a resonant boom as they impact into the ground. 

L’rahnu whips her head around, present and yet not. Like a shade without a body, she can’t feel her feet underneath her. She cannot hear the words, only muffled shouting. From both sides. The Allied soldiers rush headfirst into a Garlean legatus. Weapons fly in all manners, the legatus signalling intimidation with their gunblade. L'rahnu is as silent as a trickle of blood. She has never been to Carteneau Flats, much less the walls that kiss Mor Dhona and Northern Thanalan. And yet she looks up the scene with years of familiarity. 

And with fear that this is the moment she dies. 

It comes to the concern of Florentine and Baron, pacing just a few fulms ahead of her. She nearly collapses, before Baron comes up behind her and stops her from falling on the street.

"What's the matter, Rahnu?" Baron has the kind of face that makes worry look so effortless. 

L'rahnu stumbles to get back on her feet. “I’m sorry,” she says, a soft tone so uncharacteristic of the loudmouthed Lominsan. “I’ve just been feeling not quite myself these past days, I guess.”

Her ankles are scraped from the brick. It’s not entirely a lie, though feeling ‘not quite herself’ is only the half of it. 

Florentine kneels down and rustles L’rahnu’s hair. “Not enough ale to fuel a soul like yours,” he says, smiling. "Let's get you a place to rest."

Baron removes his long coat and places it around L’rahnu’s shoulders, supporting her with one arm. It’s an awkward limp back to the Hourglass for the night. Aye, she might just be thirsty, that or completely out of her mind. Ale might do to make her forget about the stinging in her head. That much, if nothing else.

Though L'rahnu does not reply, she appreciates their kindness all the same.

Kindness, however, is not a cure for the nightmares. It is not a cure for the uproar echoing in her soul. It is not a cure for the visions of the battle of Carteneau, the bloody hand axes, the bloodier soldiers. 

Somehow, L’rahnu has absorbed memories she has never lived. Memories stolen from those who died.


	10. satisfaction guaranteed!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ➤ lush: characterized by luxuriousness, opulence, etc.

“This should be everything you needed Kai-Shirr,” the Warrior of Darkness says. “I think so, anyways. Were anything to be missing, you get any one of the Honeybees to call for me.”

They plop down a heavy crate next to Kai-Shirr with an exaggerated exhale. Kai-Shirr rubs his hands together excitedly and starts rummaging through. Random assortments of decoratives baubles, Kholusian spices for the bar, some miscellany that the Warrior of Darkness swears is completely useless. They’ve exhausted every little thing on Kai-Shirr’s nonsensical list. Even a savior of two realms can’t escape the life of an errand child, it seems. 

The Warrior of Darkness takes a seat and waves for a bartender. Patrons around the bar stare at them, whispers that they hope are not the malicious sort. Are they really that much of an odd sight? Or maybe it's just because they've been a bit absent as of late. 

"The usual?"

"Perhaps not today, er," they begin. "Not right now, at least. Just a glass of water is fine, thanks."

Water over whiskey, at least when they’re out doing delivery runs for the Beehive.

A hatchet and scythe rest against the barstool. The Warrior of Darkness removes their thick outer coat and slings it over the back of their chair, revealing a thin, black undershirt drenched in sweat. It’s their usual gardening attire, rough with Kholusian dirt and scuffs from the rockier terrain of Amh Araeng. 

The bartender slides them a tall glass of water. A slight ‘cheers’, as they raise the glass in thanks and take a well-deserved sip.

Their short brown hair is tied up in a small ponytail. Not as short anymore, they suppose; it keeps getting longer and longer. They scratch their face, run their fingers along their scruffy chin. When you hardly have a moment to yourself, a good haircut and shave is out of the question.

From what little clarity the water's reflection, it's not a _bad_ look. It sort of suits them, the Warrior of Darkness muses, after all the struggles, after the triumph over Elidibus, after the ordeal of returning the Scions to the Source. More mature, more world-weary. 

More like Ardbert too. 

The Warrior of Darkness blushes, and it's definitely Ardbert's fault for that. _Stop that_ , _it makes me embarrassed_ , they think and take another sip of their drink. 

Tired as they are, the Warrior of Darkness feels a lot better among the atmosphere of the Beehive. They find it a bit odd, considering the drum of loud music and hypnotic lights fills the air. The Beehive hasn’t lost any of its charm, or glamour, not even since before the fall of Innocence. Levity of a different kind, not born of ignorance or overindulgence, but born of a desire for genuine happiness.

They see it among the patrons too, those who carry themselves with ease and purpose—as the two can go hand in hand in Eulmore. In Kai-Shirr, who smiles while ever attentive at his duty. 

The Warrior of Darkness lifts the glass with a sly smile across their lips. Being an errand child isn't so bad if it means that Eulmore can rebuild itself. One delivery at a time. 


	11. fight for naught (fight for everything)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ➤ avail: to be of use or value to; profit; advantage.

Ardbert hasn’t seen his body in years.

And he’s never seen his body from this angle, never from the outside. He's a stranger looking at his own face from afar. 

All the components are there, he supposes. The choppy hair, the armor made of thick hide and furs and the axe. The memories are what's missing. The time Renda-Rae took a pair of scissors to his head, announcing she was ‘doing him a favor’ by fixing his 'sorry mug'. The scratches on his breastplate from Seto, taken by surprise in the sands of Amh Araeng. The blood of primals he slew in service of a false promise.

His corpse addresses the gathering. Instinctually, Ardbert winces at the sound of his own voice, the way that it twists under the control of someone else. He’s tempted to laugh, really. If any of the Crystarium had truly known Ardbert, they’d be able to tell instantly that something is off.

Then it clicks. Elidibus, the Ascian in white. Ardbert was right to recognize his cadence, his delivery. Even his very aura is recognizable. A supernatural sense? Perhaps only because he spends all his time observing now, Ardbert picks up on the little things the Warrior of Darkness doesn't notice. 

The damn bastard's good at holding an audience, Ardbert will give him that. His monologue moves effortlessly from one line to the next. A tale of passion, a call to action through a borrowed actor. A deception obvious to him and the Warrior of Darkness leaves the rest of the Crystarium enthralled. And what poor soul could blame them? Ardbert had said as much himself; the call to heroism is too great to ignore.

The silence boils in his throat and burns the tip of his tongue. He needs to scream. He needs it so desperately, any sort of release.

But the Warrior of Darkness can not grant him as much. Not here and not now. Among the charmed audience of the Crystarium, it's too late to interrupt Elidibus.

They hold their tongue and walk away. 

By the time they retreat to the Ocular, Ardbert has a lot of anger to burn off. He’s only half listening to Urianger and Y’shtola as they speculate about possession, with Elidibus’ name ringing in his heart. He was right after all.

 _He’s got us in a damn tight spot,_ the Warrior of Darkness tells him, in between the conversation. _It's not like we can very well just tell the whole Crystarium to disregard what he says. It would only hurt you, more than anything._

They’re right but he doesn’t say it. _I know you’ll be keeping a close eye on him_ , he says instead. _He’s manipulated me once before, and that was one tragedy that should have been avoided before it even started. Gods, it hurts to see it happen again._

Why is it that Ardbert is always a fool in the end? Even when he swears to protect the First, he’s caught as an idle observer. 

But by the gods, Ardbert will still try with what little strength he has left to himself. Fight for everyone, fight for everything. Again and again, he doesn’t care how many times it takes. Foolish as he is, he hasn’t forgotten that.


	12. tête-à-tête, cœur-à-cœur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ➤ ultracrepidarian: noting or pertaining to a person who criticizes, judges, or gives advice outside the area of his or her expertise.

“Flor, I don’t think we’re getting anywhere with this.”

He’s ignoring her, for the moment. She’s always like this, complaining before they’ve started. "C'mon Rahnu, you can't give up after two seconds," he says.

"I'm being serious 'ere," L'rahnu protests. The weathered cane in her hand slams against the floor. There are times when her words come out like a hiss. He can almost see the snake's venom of her tongue. “This is damn hopeless. I’m no good at this stuff, don't think I could ever be.”

L’rahnu plops down with a huff. Baron, who’s leaning against the wall above her, sits down next to her. Baron gives her a usual pat on the head and L'rahnu leans her head against his shoulder in response.

"Twelve above," she curses. "I don't even know what I could be doing differently."

While Baron and L'rahnu entertain a small conversation, Florentine's eyes are elsewhere. A torrent of energy swirls around the Conjurer's Guild, the groups of students, the ambient aether floating listlessly. It's all a vibrant collection of condensed aether. He doesn’t remember for how long he’s been able to see these things. As good as forever, as far as his memory is concerned.

L’rahnu, for whatever reason, is different. Florentine likens her energy to a void or a black hole. Void of any aether of her own and yet so effortlessly attracts that of others. It must be so, for wandering souls flock to her with ease. The warmth of her personality is there, aether or not.

“Ah, no need to be so down on yourself,” Baron says. “You were doing great at all that, uh, that _conjury_ stuff!”

L'rahnu flicks him on the forehead. "You, shush!" she says in between giggles. "You don't even know the first thing about magic!"

It's true, Baron is no magic buff either, but even he can teleport to an Aetheryte without any hassle and perform all sorts of basic attunements. Florentine has never noticed anything abnormal. No shortage, no excess. His aether is warm and radiant, the color of a deep golden sunset.

"You have your axe, I have my fists," Baron says.

L'rahnu playfully punches Baron in the shoulder. She laughs, at least without any hint of resentment. "My axe is better than your fists."

She points to Florentine. "And your silly cane, for that matter," L'rahnu says. "I mean, no offense."

He laughs. "None taken." 

That morning, L'rahnu had come to him with an idea. A 'daft' one, she called it, but an idea nonetheless to practice the art of a conjurer. Her notable lack of aether—and magical capabilities alongside that—is a grave source of embarrassment for her. It’s never bothered Florentine to have to transport her via a teleportation or return spell. Nor to tend to her wounds or imbue her weapons with leftover aetherial energy.

L'rahnu's always been one to do everything herself, hasn't she? Better to do it yourself then to have others fretting over you, right? Gods, if only she'd try doing the latter for once.

L'rahnu picks herself up off the ground. The cane is still gripped tightly in her hand. "Well, I guess I need to practice at least until midday until I'm legally allowed to quit," she says with an exaggerated sigh. 

"And hey," Florentine raises one hand to scratch at the back of his head. "Maybe as a reward for your efforts, I'll try a hand at swinging that huge thing around."

L'rahnu snorts. "You _better_. Noodle arms."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is why i don't try to included the actual word itself into the story. i had no idea this word even existed until i saw this prompt.


	13. bit by bit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ➤ tooth and nail: with all one's resources or energy; fiercely.

Without anyone else in the Exarch’s private study, it's a sobering quiet. 

He’s used to being alone with himself, having done so for centuries even before arriving on the First. His mind works best when he’s alone. It’s the archivist and the librarian in him, the quiet helps him process. And, more importantly, the quiet is where the Exarch works best.

Were his body not sleepless, the Exarch probably would have worked himself to exhaustion at least a few times over the past days. For hours on end, he goes back and forth over the same notes, refining his process. Finally, a lethargy overtakes him and his knees grow weak. He pulls out a chair and sits down with an exhale. He tells himself that he’ll rest soon enough. At least, after one last necessary push.

The Exarch pulls out a crystalline shard from a wooden stand, specially crafted by the Mean artisans for this occasion. It’s a deep blue, partially translucent, crystal that fits perfectly in the palm of his hand. The bottom of the crystal is coated with a thick red lattice that spreads across the rest of the crystal like a growth of spores. 

One of six dedicated spirit vessels. The fruits of his labor have finally come to fruition.

Back hunched over, his eyes close as he tries to attune himself to his own essence. It's the process of connecting with an object, of taking your soul and creating an extension of itself to fit the mold of a foreign vessel. 

He rolls his head back, sinks his back into the chair. The Exarch lets his mind empty, a flood of memories inundating the crystal. It starts to glow in his hand and he grips it tighter. A sharp pain kicks in as he continues to extend himself, stretching the fringes of his soul to adapt to the vessel. His heart is racing. The pins and needles push deeper and deeper into his skull.

His grip relaxes. The Exarch exhales again and the vessel glows, an even brighter blue than when he started.

The Exarch already knows what he's in for. The Warrior of Darkness will notice his body and scold him for it. The crystal blight glows with an uncanny blue. Both his arms now feel like phantom limbs, an incessant tingling sensation that travels all the way up to his neck. 

When the Warrior of Darkness sees him next, they'll remind him again and again of the same thing. He made a vow, a promise to live to see the end of their fight. Make no mistake, dear Warrior of Darkness, he will tell them, the Exarch has never been one to fold his cards while the game is still young. The vessel is not a death wish, it’s a fail safe. A last chance at something the Exarch swore was impossible long ago.

He has no intention of dying. Not before the score with the Ascians is settled.


	14. ghost in your arms (interlude)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ➤ vitality: capacity for survival or for the continuation of a meaningful or purposeful existence.

When the Eight Umbral Calamity comes to pass, L'rahnu has survived two tragedies. Her soul bubbles of excess aether. The clutches of her mind are full of frantic voices, not of her own but of the cries of the dead.

_Rahnu, are you still there?_

She wonders why the Twelve have spared her a second time.

_Rahnu, get up, please._

She wonders why her friends could not be granted the same mercies.

Someone is standing above her weakened body. A black-clad warrior, face stuck in a sour expression and painted in scars. Their brown hair falls in messy tufts, yet frames the face softly. They draw a greatsword from their back and slice it through the dead air. 

When they stretch out their hand, she takes it in her own. Have they come to save her?

_Run!_

She wonders if they are an apparition from another lifetime.


	15. ghost with no home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ➤ part: a portion or division of a whole that is separate or distinct; piece, fragment, fraction, or section; constituent.

There are gaps in the story that are still missing. L’rahnu searches within herself for the missing pages, the forgotten words. L’rahnu is no archivist, far from it. 

There are gaps in the story that may never be recovered.

When the Eight Umbral Calamity comes to pass, L'rahnu has survived two tragedies. The poison of Black Rose was a gradual killer, an invisible one. But she can’t say she noticed anything different about the air, over the moons and the cycles of seasons that Black Rose came to pass. It was too subtle. It was pervasive, unstoppable. 

L'rahnu has never been dense of aether. There were some parts of herself that her mother said must have been stolen before she was released from the Lifestream. Perhaps it was in these moments of being without, and in her incomplete existence, that L'rahnu's life was spared. 

She clutches her chest. The newfound aether inside her has still not settled itself, spiraling desperately to find a home in her body. Absorbed into her body though not a part of herself just yet. 

_The aether will quell soon enough. Give it time._

She's trying not to dwell on it too much. There's a lot of things she still needs to get used to. 

Here L'rahnu is now in a broken hut of a loosely thatched roof, in what might have once been Fallgourd Float, a time before the Eight Umbral Calamity. Now, she doesn’t know quite what to make of it, the lifelessness that engulfs the Black Shroud. 

_Rahnu, look up._

She sits up straight with an intense jolt.

The stranger in her midst is unfazed by L'rahnu's sudden movements. They stand across from her, leaning against a wall of wooden rot. Their arms are crossed, eyes wandering across the room, seemingly looking at nothing in particular and everything at the same time. 

The stranger briefly looks down and sighs. They push off against the wall, heading for a small section in the back of the hut. L’rahnu’s eyes fall on their greatsword, a sleek black metal blade and a hilt crafted from a polished obsidian.

L'rahnu hasn’t asked them for their name yet but she’s not sure if she’s ready to break the silence. So L'rahnu sits with herself and only herself. And with the voices that are trapped inside her head. 

_You should thank them for saving your life._

Maybe, but she's not yet sure what they want from her.

The stranger returns a few moments later, carrying what looks to be a basket of whole loaves of bread, only mildly stale, and thin cuts of dried meat. They place it in front of her, and after a few moments of L'rahnu doing nothing at all, they raise an eyebrow expectantly.

"Thank you," she whispers and takes a handful of dried meat.

They smile, for the first time since L'rahnu met them. "I'm sure you and I both were hungry as coeurls back there," they say. "I'm glad to have a survivor among all the rubble."

 _And I'm glad to just have survived_ , L'rahnu thinks but does not say. Something in her stomach sinks, a heavy rock. 

L'rahnu looks up and her eyes lock with the stranger's. From this angle, she can see the firm line of their jaw, the weariness that sets into their cheeks and the sunken, tired lids of their eyes. 

A survivor, just like her.


	16. you and i (and everything in between)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ➤ ache: to feel eager; yearn; long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not explicit sexual content below but there is implications of it.

“When was the last time you held someone like this?” you ask him, because you expect him to still be asleep.

He shifts a bit in your arms, the buttons of his wedding shirt are undone and you think that you can see a stain on his lapel from ale or meed, even though he tells you that he doesn’t like the taste of the stuff. His hair is disheveled, outside of his usual ponytail. He looks up at you with two crystalline eyes, his hand still made of flesh tracing the hills and valleys of your clavicle and chest.

“A damn long time,” he mumbles, seemingly half-lucid as he puts his hand around the back of your head and pulls you in closer for another sloppy kiss. The first time, he bumps into your horns and then you both laugh as the small scrape on his nose. His long tail swishes from side to side before curling against your leg and brushing the inside of your thigh. 

You smirk at him playfully, even if he’s probably not paying attention to your face anymore, so enraptured in the heat of your body, the slow-paced beating in your chest. He rests his head against your chest, one ear pressed firmly against you.

There’s a yawn that escapes you. A warm light pours into the Roost, fluttering across the thin, silk curtains. You lift a hand to rub your eye. The eye without the scarring, the eye still the same bright blue as the day you were born into this body.

The ring glistens in the soft sunrise. He told you he was an avid goldsmith but you didn’t know he was this good. A thin silver band—you told him that you were more of a minimalist—etched with the symbol of Byregot in the middle. It glows faintly of a small enchantment. You watch faint motes of light pulse around your hand. They pulse around his hands too.

“It’s been a long time for me too,” you say because you’ve grown used to being alone: or rather, keeping yourself lonely. And it’s not the thought that people love you that hurts, it’s the thought that their love for you will get them killed. It’s the thought that you were born with a curse. It’s the thought that he will carry this curse inside him now that he loves you.

He sits up with a bit of a struggle, straddled awkwardly on your lap. You laugh a bit as his tail is still trying to find its place. It’s uncomfortable but you don’t mind. He doesn’t seem to mind either.

One hand twirls your long hair in between two fingers. He’s looking at you again with those eyes, that slight smirk and tilted chin as you look up at him.

And then he kisses you again, because he loves you and you don’t care if this love is a curse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in honor of a good friend's birthday. a retelling of the morning after our two ocs' ceremony of eternal bonding :flushed:


	17. keeper of the lilacs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ➤ lucubration: laborious work, study, thought, etc., especially at night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this feels like a deliberate attempt to make my mind read this as 'lubrication'
> 
> no horny. only studying.

_Well aren’t you up late into the night, Warrior of Darkness?_

Ardbert’s chiding voice comes to them. _What’s the occasion this time?_

The Warrior of Darkness carves out a cramped section of the Rising Stones just for themself, alongside a handful of tomes and scrolls at the ready. 

“Preparing a new spellbook,” they tell Ardbert. “Preparation that’s long overdue, in fact. I made the mistake of promising myself long ago to get better at the old Nymian style of magicks.”

The Warrior of Darkness takes a second to crack their knuckles.“Suffice to say, I am not the scholarly type. I’d rather swing a sword than spend hours on end copying words in a tome.” 

_Ha! You and I both,_ he says. _If you ask me, swinging an axe was the only talent I ever needed. Tis no wonder I left all dealings of spellcraft to everyone else._

It’s dark in Mor Dhona now. Cool air wisps through open windows. The air itself is growing weary with sleep and the deep tones of blue and purple laze around in the sky to signal midnight’s arrival. The Warrior of Darkness yawns. They’re half writing, half twirling a pen in their fingers for want of anything else to do.

They yawn again. The frantic fluttering of small wings fills their ears like a melody, a lullaby. The small, incandescent visages of Eos and Selene float above them. The Warrior of Darkness lets their eyes follow them, trace the faint lines of magick they leave in their wake. 

The next thing the Warrior of Darkness sees is a blank wall and they feel a cold surface pressed against their cheek. They get up, with a start, to find most of the tomes and scrolls knocked on the floor. 

A familiar voice rings in their mind. _Looks like you’re back._

Where’s Eos and Selene?

_I fell asleep?_

Ardbert is amused, and that makes one of them. _Aye, and for a pretty good while too,_ he says. 

They look around. Most of the lights have dimmed and the open foyer has fallen into dead silence. The Warrior of Darkness rolls their shoulders, stretching out the lingering cramps in their neck.

“Was I really out that long?”

 _Couple hours at least,_ he says. _But, on the bright side, I think someone had the mind to leave you with a little gift ere they parted._

To that, the Warrior of Darkness raises an eyebrow. They notice out of the corner of their eye something rectangular covered by a white-and-blue checkered cloth. The Warrior of Darkness lifts the cloth to see an assortment of cut sandwiches. They sit delicately inside a wooden basket. 

_Well, well, what do we have here?_ Ardbert teases. _Our dear Warrior of Darkness is so lucky to have a doting husband like the Exarch._

They imagine him, the whole-body reaction with a biting flinch, and an arm on their shoulder as Ardbert leans over them. 

The Warrior of Darkness swats at the air, like he's a fly buzzing in their ear. “Knock it off, would you?” They snap, not able to stop a smile. “You didn’t inform me that Rejoining with you would be a constant supply of snark in my mind.”

 _You should have been prepared for it, my friend!_ There it is, that warm buzz in their chest when they know that Ardbert's internally laughing at them. Twelve above, he really can be insufferable sometimes.

And yet they yield to Ardbert’s humor and chuckle, pulling out one of the sandwiches carefully so as not to ruin a masterfully crafted display. It smells irresistible, a breaded pork cutlet still warm with La Noscean lettuce and thinly sliced tomatoes. The bread is soft and airy, cut into even triangles for holding.

The Warrior of Darkness chuckles quietly to themself. They really are lucky to have them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when you're an omni-healer but you just suck as scholar because your brain is too small (me, i'm talking about me).


	18. hollow echoes in my ears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ➤ fade: to disappear or die gradually.

Later, L’rahnu learns that the stranger’s name is Ain. Ain promises to tell her their story, though they recount it like footnotes hidden away among the rest of the page. Something unimportant, irrelevant to that which is _now_ , that which is unavoidable. They were a mercenary once, a mercenary who worked small jobs for even smaller coin; and once Ain starts to put down the pieces of their story, L’rahnu realizes that these are all the same stones she’s walked over before, at least in another life.

What parts they don’t tell her, L’rahnu can figure out from the words in between words. She catches it in scratches on their face and in tiny flinches or twitches in their eyes. This is a child of war and a product of a bloodstained past. They speak about the long stretches of the Black Shroud with intimate familiarity, even after it's been twisted beyond recognition. And just beyond, they look fondly towards the Fringes and long for a dusty, Gyr Abanian breeze.

“We can’t stay here much longer,” they say. “You can feel that rumbling in the earth, can’t you?”

She can feel it, but not of her own volition. It’s the tumultuous aether inside her, possessed of a will of its own. L’rahnu likes to think she’s used to it by now, but her body is still too heavy, left off-kilter from the imbalance. A flare of pain bursts in her head. It signals the intrusion of a thought from someone else.

_I'd be careful around this 'Ain'. Something about them is strange._

That much is obvious, and L'rahnu's not enough of a fool to trust based on first impressions. But even still, she remembers:

_They certainly had no intention of letting you die back there._

She remembers being slung over their shoulder, limp and barely conscious, barely even alive. If there's some ulterior motive at play, L'rahnu hasn't figured it out yet. What kind of motive could that even be? What use would be a half-dead Miqo’te and the corpses of two unlucky men?

It happens in the downtime, in the preparation for their next departure as the Black Shroud is growing more and more unstable. L’rahnu and Ain take a moment of respite in their broken down hut, as good as a second home these days. A long silence hangs between them.

And then L’rahnu scoffs: “Why in all seven hells did you save me?”

It’s a cold remark, quick but volatile.

“Do I need a reason to?” Ain says, cocking an eyebrow. “You were covered in blood and looked like you could use a hand.”

_I told you before, it’s worth at least a thanks, Rahnu._

She knows already, she doesn’t need reminding of her debts. L’rahnu drops her axe on the floor and promptly collapses next to it.

“Right then. I said my thanks before and I can say it again,” she continues, rolling her neck. L'rahnu takes a moment to feel out the aches in her body. “But, since I’m also in the mood for questions, I have another one for you first. How did you manage to survive all this?”

She makes a vague gesture with both hands to signal some sort of explosion.

Ain smirks, laughing in the way that signals a sense of survival. “Luck, I suppose,” they say. “I couldn’t tell you if anything about my body or soul is particularly special, particularly dense of strong aether. We both know by now that many things in life are without rhyme or reason. I never did anything better or smarter than anyone else. I was just a sorry adventurer.”

L’rahnu lowers her head. “That makes two of us,” she says with her fists clenching tighter around the bottom of her axe. “The ‘sorry adventurer’ part, at least.”

_Sorry adventurers, we’ve lost so much already._

That we have, L’rahnu thinks. That Ain has too, she thinks.

_But we still have a long way to go. The best we can do is carry on._

A warm tingling sensation spreads across her chest. It’s a newfound warmth, granted to her from the aether. There are moments like this where the voices of the dead are comforting. They serve as an inward reminder that, despite everything, she hasn't been left alone.

_For those we’ve lost._

L’rahnu brings her knees to her chest and rests her head on them, tilted down to the floor. How long will this last, she wonders, until the excess energy inside her will disappear among the waves of the soul, and every Calamity behind her becomes a distant memory?

_And for those we can yet save._


	19. and yet, it remains unwritten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ➤ panglossian: characterized by or given to extreme optimism, especially in the face of unrelieved hardship or adversity.

There’s a compendium somewhere of letters the Warrior of Darkness has yet to send. Some of them have the barest of smudged ink and dirty fingerprints. Some are yet to be written. Some of them dare only to stay among the Warrior of Darkness’s mind.

Their fingers ache from writing. The Warrior of Darkness fixates on one small piece of paper, among a myriad of others piling up on their desk.

_ How are you, Ryne? Still bothering the Crystarium guards with your adamant training at the crack of dawn? _

The Warrior of Darkness chuckles but scratches it out. They wonder if it's better to start like this, or if it's better to start at the end. To pick up the pieces left behind.

_ How are you, Ryne? The Scions and myself continue to carry you in our hearts.  _

Sometimes, they write, for the fear that spoken words could never suffice. Some parts fear, some parts shame of their own sentimentality. They wipe over the wet ink, letting it smudge and paint their sore hand.

_ Is life among the Crystarium treating you well? I’ve heard great things of your progress from the Captain, and it seems that your positivity is quite a welcome treat for the guards. Even a world built on sorrow cannot sustain itself in tragedy forever. They’re lucky to have people like you. _

The Warrior of Darkness chuckles, picturing Ryne’s small frame and nervous stature. The gunblade cushioned in her arms is too big, too hefty for her. She fumbles once or twice, trying to keep it steady, snug tight. She carries it with pride.

_ There’s a part of me that wishes, no matter how inconceivable it is, that we could have stayed with you. I am blessed, at least, to be a soul shared between two worlds. Between yours and ours. And yet despite my role as messenger, there are things that would be best heard with your own two ears, and of someone else's voice. There are things that Thancred regrets not telling you when he had the chance. _

Thancred is asleep in the Dawn’s Respite, not but a few fulms away from the Warrior of Darkness. He fell asleep again without taking off his bracers and chest armor.

_ Promise me that you’ll take care of yourself. Continue beaming with such vibrant passion, with the heart to do what is right. With the heart not only to protect others but to protect yourself. _

They dedicate the last letter to a young woman they know will change the world.

_ We have your back. _

_ Forever and always, _

_ The Warrior of Darkness. _


	20. a baker's dozen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ➤ where the heart is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and now, the follow-up to chapter 16.

The Warrior of Darkness keeps forgetting to thank G'raha for the sandwiches. 

_You can just say 'thanks', you know. Like a regular person._

That's besides the point. Saying 'thank you' isn't the hard part, the hard part is that they have to look G'raha in the eyes while doing it. The hard part is the sincerity, capturing the breadth of it all; and doing all that with G'raha's gaze fixated on them and solely them.

The Warrior of Darkness’ eyes dart around the Dawn’s Respite. They have the vantage point, their usual tucked corner table dedicated to every bit of paperwork and journaling they do. G’raha’s been busy anyways, since his grandiose return to the Source. Krile and Y’shtola have been _quite_ the adamant pair in regards to his newly dense soul, pleading of him to hasten whatever research it is they’re after.

Silence shatters as a wooden door creaks open, delicate footsteps following in its wake. G’raha enters Dawn's Respite in a huff, quickly closing the door behind himself. He sighs with a prolonged exhale, a moment of relief, before slumping down onto one of the many beds. As expected, he probably was consorting with Krile, the toll on G'raha's body is evident. His hands reach up to untie his braid and G’raha shakes his hair loose, displacing a few pins and baubles caught among the strands.

The Warrior of Darkness thinks to raise their hand to get his attention but quickly lowers it. They don’t need to, G’raha already spots them from across the room. While G’raha waves at them, he tilts his head, warm eyes as the corners of his mouth curl into a smile.

_There he is._

Clearly, they realize that. The Warrior of Darkness awkwardly waves back at him.

_Now’s your chance._

Absolutely not. They’re perfectly happy to sit here in silence, feigning studies and idly folding paper edges in their fingers.

With a jarring jolt, the Warrior of Darkness gets up out of their chair, knocking a few sheets of paper onto the ground. They take a few steps forward, visibly less balanced than normal as if they were a child first learning how to walk. Gripping the edge of the table, their knuckles a bright red but grip too loose to fight their uncooperative body.

 _Ardbert, what in the hells are you doing?_ The Warrior of Darkness tells him, griting their teeth.

_Fixing the situation for you, obviously!_

'Fixing?' What could he possibly have to 'fix'? But, no matter what he's focused on, Ardbert has a will of iron, as the Warrior of Darkness realizes once more trying to wrestle back control over their body. Despite their similarities, Ardbert moves with sluggishness, like his mind moves faster than the Warrior of Darkness' body can respond. It's a process, a process of finding that groove again after years of wandering, soul set adrift.

As they approach, G’raha shoots the Warrior of Darkness a concerned look. “H-Huh?! Is everything alright?” 

“Absolutely fine, G’raha,” the Warrior of Darkness says, swallowing a knot in their throat. “I just,”

The words fizzle out before they even say them. "I just wanted to,"

_Aren't you going to say something?_

_I don’t know what to say, Ardbert!_

Their body sighs, exasperated. _Fine then, I’ll say it for you,_ Ardbert tells them and tries to force another step with their body. With a single step, Ardbert stumbles and falls forward. The motion causes G’raha to jump to his feet and catch them in his arms.

“Do you need to rest?" G'raha pleads. There's a panic rising in his voice. "I’m aware you were up quite late last night with some rather laborious studies and—”

“Thank you, G’raha.”

Oh gods, this is it. This is really it, this is how the Warrior of Darkness dies. They don’t even have the courage to thank G’raha for a godsdamned basket of sandwiches and now the ghost in their head has to do it for them.

Ardbert straightens their body up and stands face to face now with G’raha, stable for the time being. “Since even the legendary Warrior of Darkness is too afraid to say it, I will do it for them,” their mouth is moving, but it’s not the Warrior of Darkness doing the talking. It’s an odd feeling, being a passenger in their own body.

“Thank you, G’raha. The Warrior of Darkness is truly grateful for all that you’ve done for them,” Ardbert says. “The sandwiches from the other night included, saving me from my awkward fumbles included. And I thank you for continuing to look out for their well-being.”

Ardbert reaches and clasps G’raha’s hands into his own—their own hands, borrowed.

_You’ve got some nerve, Ardbert._

_They’re your nerves, actually, but thank you._

What a knob. The Warrior of Darkness lets go and coughs, granted back some amount of control. They can’t help the deep flush all over their face. G’raha, meanwhile, is staring at them blankly. He blinks once or twice, lips pursed but without sound. Gods, G’raha looks like he’s forgotten how to speak.

“S-Sure, he might have some gall, but Ardbert’s right,” the Warrior of Darkness says. “I’ve been meaning to thank you for that night but I hadn’t found the right time or place.”

G’raha’s tail starts to swish back and forth. “Think nothing of it!” he proclaims, red gathering on his face. “Tis the least I can do after all you’ve done for me.”

They really can’t stand to look G’raha in the eyes right now. 

“I would have a message for Ardbert, as well.”

To that remark, Ardbert makes their body flinch. Though G’raha looks at the Warrior of Darkness, his gaze is measured and focused, searching for something beyond the physical. Their body feels like a transparent sheet, a window. 

“Though you and I have not had the pleasure of talking—until recently, of course—I would be honored to make your acquaintance,” G’raha begins. “To meet one of Norvrandt’s finest heroes, a Warrior of Light.”

Now someone else is embarrassed and it’s certainly not the Warrior of Darkness. They await a reply from Ardbert, only for him to sink back into silence. 

"I think he's quite flattered by the prospect, G'raha," the Warrior of Darkness says. “He’s just become extremely shy and withdrawn all of a sudden. Whatever could be the cause of that?”

_Well then, are you satisfied with this now, Warrior of Darkness?_

They smirk. _Extremely. Call it revenge._


	21. unto the morning light (interlude)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ➤ transitory: lasting only a short time; brief; short-lived; temporary.

Most nights, Ardbert doesn’t dream. He floats aimlessly, swept up in an all-encompassing tide.

When his dreams are his own, one last silver of himself that belongs to only himself, Ardbert dreams of the Flood. A stagnant, cold and colorless haze. The barrier at the edge of Nabaath Araeng. Minfilia. 

Most dreams, anyways. This light is warm and comforting, an unusual sensation Ardbert. A soft sunrise pours in from a room he’s never seen before, that he knows of only vaguely from the book pages that form the Warrior of Darkness’ memories. Cloud Nine, isn’t it? His face is half illuminated by the fractured rays of light coming from the window.

There’s another body beside him, stirring to lucidity. He stretches his arms out and wraps them around Ardbert’s waist. A pair of fluffy Mystel ears press against Ardbert’s chest, a tail brushes against the inside of his thigh.

“Good morning,” the Exarch says, and Ardbert’s stumbling over his words. 

The Exarch looks up at him, a finger dragging down Ardbert’s neck and clavicle.

And then, the Warrior of Darkness opens their eyes. Yes, of course, it was just a dream. How could it be anything else, after all, it’s not like the Exarch would— _ could _ —care about Ardbert, it’s the Warrior of Darkness he cares about anyways, and;

“Is everything alright Ardbert?”

_ Aye, of course, of course!  _ Ardbert says, even though he’s made their body sweat bullets.  _ Everything’s fine. Just a dream, just a dream is all. _

If man could die from embarrassment alone, Ardbert would have done so eons ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> awkward ardbert is my favorite ardbert.
> 
> there's an expanded, NSFW version of this prompt [here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26575462) check it out if that's your cup of tea.


	22. old blood, new blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ➤ foible(s): a minor weakness or failing of character; slight flaw or defect.

There’s a palatably tense energy when the Warrior of Darkness enters the Dawn’s Respite.

This is an odd sight: G’raha Tia is hunched over with his head in his hands, practically sinking into his bedside. He’s whispering, mumbling, something repeatedly under his breath.

“Hi G’raha.”

G’raha looks up in surprise with an indignant yelp. “Ah, apologies!” he says and clears his throat. He's clearly flustered, brushing the long strands of hair out of his face. “Tis good to see you, Warrior of Darkness.”

It’s been a day since the Warrior of Darkness awoke G’raha from his slumber in the Crystal Tower. G'raha has nothing on except a simple pair of slacks and an undershirt, his long hair tied up in a high ponytail—G'raha hasn't found the time to trim his hair or his nails yet, so he says.

Not too long after the Warrior of Darkness, Tataru enters with a pot of freshly brewed tea and some leftover Archon Loaf, quietly placing it next to G'raha's bedside table. 

Meanwhile, Krile rests against the open door frame, arms crossed and shooting daggers at G'raha only to be met with the same look in return. Her lips curl devilishly, much to G'raha's annoyance.

"Krile has quite the stare," the Warrior of Darkness says.

"Always has."

Ever since his awakening, Krile’s been eyeing G'raha as a lanner does it’s prey. Part of it is the responsibility over his aether, making sure nothing is amiss in his soul.

And he seems well enough, for the most part. The Warrior of Darkness takes a moment to inspect G'raha. Streaks of red are speckled across G'raha's arms, ilm deep cuts into skin pale as a sheet.

G’raha notices the worry on their face. “Ah, this is, this is a residual effect from the pain of my soul's attunement. It seems I was gripping onto my own arm too tightly, it's a process of getting used to this one being made of flesh,” he says. "But worry not, this will heal come the 'morrow."

“G’raha, it’s been only a day. You need to give yourself—” but before they can finish, G’raha presses a finger against their lips and the Warrior of Darkness shuts up. "Very well, if you insist." 

"On another note, what is it with you and Krile? Why is she smirking at you like that?"

G'raha's ears sink. “I informed you prior of my, let’s call it _involvement_ , in Krile’s aetherial research, yes?”

The Warrior of Darkness nods.

“Right,” G’raha sighs. “She’s quite adamant to learn all she can know about my body and my soul, especially while I’m still settling into this new state.”

G'raha pauses and fiddles with his finger. "We made a bet, simply put."

"A bet?"

"It was her insistence!" G'raha snaps, uncharacteristically annoyed. "She proclaimed it would take me at least a three days, if not a week, to adjust to the attunement. I, on the other hand, was certain I would be recuperated in a day's time."

G'raha professes himself with unusual defensiveness and pride, though it's clearly not directed at the Warrior of Darkness. 

"As you might have guessed," G'raha says. "Krile won."

So _that’s_ what this is about. It seems that, for all his maturity, Krile is the one person that manages to get G’raha all riled up. And over the tiniest things, for that matter. The Warrior of Darkness spotted them together earlier this morning, Krile pulling on G’raha’s tail while he sat at his bedside and making him drop a piece of bread in shock. She’s always a step quicker than him, a touch more sly.

How long have they been like this, the Warrior of Darkness wonders. For a damn long time, it must be.


	23. to whom it may concern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ➤ argy-bargy: a vigorous discussion or dispute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **content warning(s): mentions of past parental neglect and abuse.**
> 
> a taste of oc backstory! i'm thinking up some more scenarios to write surrounding l'rahnu and what she's up to ^^.

The _Luminaries_ like to play a game. A game of a fashion, nowhere near as pleasant or carefree as the games of one’s childhood. They like to play a game: a game of secrets, a game of sharing memories so that each of them doesn't lose their footing, and doesn't forget about where they came from or how they got here. They take turns reopening old wounds to remember that they can still bleed. Despite the sourness of it all, L’rahnu quite enjoys these nights. Not all memories are bad ones, she tells herself.

Tonight, it's L'rahnu's turn. Three of them are left awake, soaking in the wafting heat from a makeshift campfire. Across from her, Ain's face is low-lit and Riyeh rests his head on their lap, yawning. Both are close to drifting off. Florentine and Baron must be asleep, for a distinct lack of Florentine's snark or Baron's scolding in her ears. Momoji is as she always is—gods, the woman could sleep on a pile of needles if it came down to it.

And L’rahnu, for her part, is inebriated, down two bottles of old mead at her feet and possessed of a raspy voice that rarely sees the light of day. Every other word is a hiss, a bite—she can say these kinds of things here and only here. These are the things she would never say in front of her mother. 

That’s a good icebreaker, she supposes. Her family. L’rahnu doesn’t mind sharing such things, she knows she’s in good company. An orphan, a handful of exiles, the adventurer forged without a past, without a home. None of them belong anywhere, except for among each other.

The last time L'rahnu saw her mother, her whole body was shaking with fear and anger in equal measure. The two of them, howling and crying until neither voice sounds like a voice anymore.

Behind L’rahnu, her brother L'naaya is cowering and presses both hands, blood running cold, against his cheek, the bright red sting on his face. His sister, a shield, a protector. His mother, a tempest, a whorl that consumes the ocean whole.

A heaviness sits in her gut. Not a hint of L'naaya upon the earth, nowhere they've walked. She doesn't want to think he died. With or without a Calamity, the brother is as an anchor. He has to be alive, he has to. 

"The last time I saw 'er, I told the old crone I was never coming back home," L'rahnu says, grinning with pride. "For all that's gone to shite, for all the unkept promises, I never looked back on that one."

She takes a swig of mead and wipes her mouth. The empty glass clanks against L’rahnu’s necklace, her deft fingers fiddling with the thin rope with a pair of coeurl fangs attached: a gift from Baron. 

Riyeh scoffs, adjusting himself in Ain’s lap. “Good gods. Sounds like your mother even gives Keeper matriarchs a run for their gil,” they say. 

L’rahnu locks eyes with Riyeh as he tries to reach for one of the mead bottles. For the first time since L’rahnu has met him, Riyeh looks sheepish and avoids her gaze, putting the bottle down without a retort.

“I’m glad you don’t have to deal with that anymore,” Ain says.

L’rahnu snorts. “Thank the Twelve for that,” she says. “The woman made me want to pull my hair out every time she spoke.”

Her head tilts back. The stars above, at least, are the one thing that remains ever unchanging.


	24. with some gil to spare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ➤ shuffle: an evasive trick; evasion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is now an entire saga of wol trying to get ardbert to go on a date with g'raha. you love to see it. set after the events of "i know we've never met but i think i like you".

This is exactly what Ardbert was trying to avoid.

The Warrior of Darkness peruses the marketplace, the bustling promenade of Revenant’s Toll. It’s a usual routine of vendors, new faces that come and go only for fleeting moments, handing off crates and packages before they’re off again. It’s a usual routine of the Warrior of Darkness as an intermediary, a means to an end from one vendor to the next.

That is all to say: Ardbert peruses the marketplace using the Warrior of Darkness’ body as a vessel. Earlier that morning, the Warrior of Darkness presented G’raha with a request, quite insistently. For the most part, Ardbert had only been mildly attentive to their conversation. Until the Warrior of Darkness brings him up, catching his attention like gunfire.

“Why don’t you give him the run of the city, G’raha?” they say. “It’s more interesting than having me running circles around the House of Splendors for the millionth time.”

G’raha’s ear piques with interest, putting down a tome. “So you’re trying to get Ardbert to do your errands for you, is that it?” 

“No, I’m trying to get Ardbert _and_ you to do my errands for me,” they joke. “Please G’raha, I do enough as is, I think I could be afforded a daytime nap.”

G’raha laughs, an amused edge to his voice. “I have no objections should he be willing to join me,” he says. "It'll be more efficient with the two of us, after all."

The Warrior of Darkness’ voice comes to him, sharp as a needle. _I knew you would have some reservations with my little plan,_ they chuckle out loud.

They have that much right. He's never taken that much care to hide his emotions from the Warrior of Darkness, be it a pang of queasiness in their gut, a twitch of the brow, or flushed face.

 _I_ _think I can handle one afternoon in the backseat compared to your century,_ they tell him. _Besides, isn’t it nice to get to see the Source while not faced with the threat of an incoming Ardor?_

Very well, Ardbert thinks to himself and sighs. It can't hurt, he supposes.

G’raha watches with curiosity as the Warrior of Darkness closes their eyes, breathing in with deep focus. There's a place in the back of the mind the Warrior of Darkness can retreat to, if they try hard enough. It's followed by a twinge of pain, a brief nausea trying to adjust to the weight of their body as Ardbert feels like he's getting pulled forward out of a pool of water. He takes a moment to examine their hands, or his hands for the time being, clenching fists and cracking the knuckles.

Ardbert opens his eyes and blinks a few times. 

It catches him off guard when G’raha claps his hands together with an epiphany. “I just noticed that your eyes are a different shade of blue than theirs,” he says. “A paler color.”

And gods, does he nearly jump when G’raha pats him square on the back. “I’ll be ready in a moment, Ardbert,” he says, before retreating to the Dawn’s Respite. 

Never before had he been so dumbfounded to hear someone say his name.

Ardbert pulls out a torn slip of paper from his pocket. A list of errands in the Warrior of Darkness’ cramped handwriting. Just a step behind him, G’raha has one hand hovering behind the small of his back, just in case he stumbles. Ardbert cradles a few thick tomes in his arms, so-called ‘master recipes’ for the Warrior of Darkness and G’raha carries a basket of provisions tied over with padded cloth.

_Hey, are you still awake?_

No response.

Of course, they’re of no use to him now. There's no point asking when he can already tell that the Warrior of Darkness is taking a nap. He should have seen this coming, that they would leave him floundering, a fish stuck on the shore. Truthfully, Ardbert is desperate to make conversation with G’raha, but he can't help the persistent lump lodged in his throat. 

That is, until G’raha says, once he drops the basket at the foot of the House of Splendors: “I wonder what kind of food vendors come to Mor Dhona this time of year.” 

And then G’raha is off like a child, gesturing for Ardbert to follow behind. He jogs in between tents with a pace that Ardbert can’t quite match. A pouch of gil, jingling with the rhythm of his footsteps, rests in Ardbert’s pocket with a note to ‘ _buy yourself a little treat’_ from the Warrior of Darkness. 

It doesn’t take long for G’raha to return with a hot basket of bacon bread and imported Sohm Al tart.

“You know, if you asked me all that time ago, I never would have thought you to be a food lover, though,” Ardbert pauses to catch his breath. “Based on your cooking I should have known.”

G’raha opens his mouth to speak, taking pause only when he realizes its still half full. His face is flustered. “I’m only a novice compared to the likes of the Mean’s artisans,” he says. "Being back on the Source means catching up with all the lost years, all the little joys I've since missed."

Solemn for a moment, Ardbert stares at the stone pavement. Making up for lost time, that's what he's doing now too, isn't it?

G’raha offers Ardbert one of the tarts, a bite already taken out of it. “Would you like some?”

Ardbert’s still cradling the tomes close to his chest, in hopes that they don’t fall. He leans over to take a bite. With the Warrior of Darkness being a culinarian by one of many trades, it’s a wonder he doesn’t know more about this stuff. A sickly sweet chestnut cream hides a light meringue underneath.

“I guess it has been a while since I’ve been treated to a good dessert.”

G’raha’s staring at him again.

“Is something the matter?”

He giggles. “You have a bit on your nose,” G'raha says, wiping off the remnant chestnut purée with his finger and licking it.

This is exactly what Ardbert was trying to avoid, the moments in between when he’s caught off guard. He’s never been able to hide when he gets flustered, never will. One death and a soul since Rejoined can’t even stop that.


	25. home sweet home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ➤ beam: to smile radiantly or happily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> despite the prompt, we are back to angst today. i will continue to write about my ocs even though only i care.

Somewhere on the First, the young mystel Mija-Lio is about to die. Her Sundered soul is to be reunited in the Source, homecoming to a person she has never met, in a city she has never seen. She hasn't a clue where her soul comes from, nor that it was fragmented across fourteen Shards a long time ago.

She doesn’t know it yet, but this will be the last time she ever drinks ale, and it’s damn god ale for the occasion. Better than the stuff you can usually find on Kholusian dirt. Mija-Lio is as many on the First are, well-acquainted with death itself and unafraid of its fangs. It wouldn’t matter if she’s dying today or tomorrow: she’s drinking away every night like it’s her last.

Mija-Lio pours the last of the ale into a wooden cup, tossing the bottle aside. It rolls across the floor with a hollow clink. A handsome Drahn is sitting cross-legged next to her. He’s not usually one for alcohol but tonight he decided to give it a try. The two friends have a selection of six cards in front of them. It’s an old Eulmoran drinking game, though even the lowly residents of Gatetown can enjoy it from time to time.

Mija-Lio flips over a few cards.

“High or low?” Mija-Lio says.

He eyes the cards intensely. Some of the cards have tears, frayed edges, or a faded pattern on the backside. If only he can remember which scars hide what.

“Stop stalling, Weiss,” she says. “High or low?”

“Low.”

Mija-Lio flips over the rest of the cards.

“Ha!” She leans over and flicks him on the forehead. “Drink up!”

Weiss’ eyes narrow towards Mija-Lio as he picks up the cup, taunted by Mija-Lio’s toothy smile. He brings the cup to his lips, an immediate instinct to recoil from the bitter taste. How does Mija-Lio do it, time after time, downing the stuff like it doesn’t burn away at her throat? After he’s finished, the two look at each other and then burst into a fit of laughter.  Weiss gets up, stumbling a bit from the rush of drunkenness. 

He squints at the sky. Somehow, the everlasting light looks brighter tonight, rays of light waxing and waning like an aurora.

It’s beautiful. 

Weiss doesn’t know it yet, but he’s about to die. A fate awaits him on the other side, where his Sundered soul will find refuge in a city called Gridania. There, a woman named L’rahnu is waiting for him.


	26. as we once were (as we shall ever be)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ➤ wish: to want; desire; long for.

Had L'rahnu the choice, she would have wanted to meet Weiss under different circumstances.

His arrival is unexpected, unpredictable, as many things had become in the advent of Black Rose. It starts, one afternoon, following rumors that began in the Fringes. They spread like wildfire of Garlean unrest, feeding an uneasy cacophony of whispers all about Gridania.

The Order of the Twin Adder do their best to subdue them. Even if it’s a futile effort. L’rahnu’s known since long ago that something in the air is shifting, a miasma spreads just under their fingertips.

Florentine and Baron need to come back from Castrum Oriens sooner rather than later. 

Then comes the shouting, just outside the Leatherworker's Guild, from two elezen men in a frantic quarrel. One of them grabs the other square on the shoulders and slams him against the wooden grain. He heaves and heaves, his grip crumbling and his shoulders sinking until his teary face rests in the other man’s chest.

L’rahnu clutches at her mouth. All of a sudden, an overwhelming urge to vomit.

Her head stings. She hunches over in pain and keeps one hand close to her chest as if her heart would tumble out of her body otherwise.

_Where am I?_

She thinks, and yet she knows where she is, doesn't she? L'rahnu is in Old Gridania, posted by the marketboards. She exits the marketplace with purpose, running away from a voice chasing her in her mind.

_What’s going on? Why can’t I move?_

The world is going to shit, for one thing. And just when things seem to be on the upkeep, no less. Ever since the Doman and Ala Mhigan liberation, Garlemald has grown more and more unstable from afar, though peering behind such a fortress of iron and blood is nigh impossible unless you crave death. 

L’rahnu cracks her knuckles.

_Never heard of any of those names before. Who in the hells are you?_

Shut up, shut up, _shut up_. L’rahnu can't think straight when her mind is flooded with thoughts that don't make sense. She knows all of these things already, so why do the questions keep coming?

_I'm just as confused as you are._

She can work with that. It's better to be two confused souls than be one condemned to secrecy.

L’rahnu presses her face against the glass windows of the Leatherworker’s Guild. She watches as her breath gathers in foggy clouds. This is who she is, L’rahnu thinks. This is who you’re stuck with for the time being, she thinks.

Could a shade not have the decency to at least give her a name?

Finally, the voice comes to her. _My name is Weiss._

"Nice to meet you Weiss," she says.

She pauses her jog to catch her footing. A few of the Wood Wailers shoot her a worried glance, L’rahnu near collapsed, sputtering and coughing up blood. 

_Nice to meet you, all right. My name is L’rahnu Nehm,_ she tells Weiss. _And get well acquainted with it. You might be here for a while_.

***

L'rahnu's body is still recovering as her and Weiss make for the Central Shroud, in hopes of avoiding the nascent chaos brewing in Gridania. More fights, more outbreaks of shouting, more panic amidst the public. A torn map in hand is enough to press onward, further and further towards the borderlines of Coerthas drawn in ash and snow.

That pain, the sting, the ringing in her ears and numbness in her fingers: a side effect of having Weiss' aether fold into her own. It’s subsided for the time being, though she can still feel the shock in her body, waves of nausea.

 _I’m sorry about all the shock,_ Weiss’ voice is quiet, subdued in her mind. _Certainly was an unwelcome entrance if I’ve ever seen one._

“Don’t apologize when you didn’t have any say in the matter,” L’rahnu says. “You do have some explainin’ to do, though. Where you came from, how you got ‘ere and the likes. I need as much information as I can get.”

_I’ll try my best. The details of it all are still fuzzy, at best._

What she learns is of a land she never knew existed. Norvrandt. The name slips off her tongue as if it were a childhood memory, a distant bout of nostalgia. But L’rahnu has never seen the cool shores of Kholusia, nor the proud foliage of the Rak’tika Greatwood.

What L'rahnu will later learn is that there are seven other souls lost inside her. Seven erased, seven condemned. Each from a world similar but wholly separate from her own. She's lucky, at least, for the chance to meet Weiss. Why is it that he, he among all the rest, had not integrated himself into her completely? Why is it that he's able to cling so tightly to his will, floating freely in the aether?

By what mercy is a soul of the First spared?

***

Part of the adjustment is remembering that there are now two souls conscious inside her, instead of just one.

They settle down for the night, coddled in the underbrush of the Black Shroud. Weiss' nervousness is palatable, L'rahnu' can feel it in the way her heart is about to beat out of her chest. With a huff, L'rahnu lays down in the grass. One hand, an open palm, hovers over her heart, close.

"Just relax for a moment, will you?" L'rahnu says, a brow furrowed. She takes in a deep breath. "Being nervous about everything's not going to get us anywhere. And besides, whatever you feel, I feel too. My blood wouldn't be pumping so much otherwise."

 _Right, sorry,_ Weiss says. _Again, sorry for all the trouble._

She lifts one hand in the air, staring in between her flexed fingers. "I told you to stop apologizing," L'rahnu says. "Whatever's going on, it's bigger than both you and I."

_I wish I knew what 'it' was._

"As do I. But we don't exactly have the privilege of asking questions right now."

Her eyes dart left and right, scanning the clearing for anyone nearby. There's howling among them, but it's distant, likely trapped inside the city-state.

_You seem tired._

L'rahnu yawns. "That obvious, am I? It's been a hell of a day, that's for sure."

 _Are you sure it's safe to sleep here?_ L'rahnu sprawls out, stretching her arms over her head.

"I doubt it's safe to sleep anywhere," she says. "You get used to it when your entire life is on the road."

 _Right,_ somehow, she feels like that answer doesn't sit well with him. _Well, uh, goodnight L'rahnu._

"G'night Weiss."

L'rahnu can only hope that the lingering thunder in his heart will quell soon enough. The blood is pumping, faster by the second.


	27. rest for the weary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ➤ when pigs fly.

When it happens, Ardbert feels his fingers ache at the tips.

His hazy vision can make out the outline of the Kholusian shoreline in the distance, shrouded in a thick fog. He hears his father call for him and turns to see a head peeking out from the mountainside cottage they call home. A familiar soft smile, rugged face with a few fresh talon marks from his work as an amaro porter.

Dinner is waiting inside, his father tells him. And despite Ardbert’s friendship with the birds and the beasts of the mountains, his father pleads him to come home before it gets too dark.

Ardbert must be around seventeen; he’s not yet stepped foot into the depths of adventure.

When it happens, it takes Ardbert a second to realize what’s going on. His father has been dead for years, the village he called home as a child has been destroyed for over a century.  Dreams come to him easy now, easier still than when he first Rejoined with the Warrior of Darkness.

Ardbert gets up with a yawn, rolling his shoulders to shake off the sluggishness of the night. He hears a few cracks, first in his neck and then in his knuckles. His hair is a mess, the fringe falling in disorganized tufts over his face.

No, but it couldn’t be. His body was destroyed, he saw it happen with his own two eyes; or, the eyes of the Warrior of Darkness, at any rate. There’s nothing left of him physically, on neither world he’s walked, on not the heavens above. 

If not his own body, then;

His heart drops. Ardbert is up with a jolt, nearly slipping out of bed. A mirror, a glass, either one will do. There’s a tall, standing frame near the door if he remembers correctly.

He grips the side of the mirror, and if he grips any tighter, Ardbert feels like he’ll shatter the glass.

"Hey, hey, hey," he starts to repeat, getting more frantic with each passing second. "Wake up already!"

No response. He even waits a handful of minutes more, only to be met with empty silence.

Someone in the Rising Stones must be able to do something about this. Y’shtola, Krile? Truthfully, Ardbert’s not nearly familiar enough with their expertise to make that kind of judgment. But anything is better than nothing. 

Usually, Ardbert is only able to control the Warrior of Darkness’ body for brief moments, and lacking considerable dexterity all the while. This is new, this is uncomfortable for him. He almost trips trying to open the door. He sighs. Dexterity doesn't come back easily. 

Outside is a familiar face: the plucky receptionist of the Rising Stones, Tataru. Her garb is the same as usual, though Ardbert can't help but notice the heavy circle that set in under her eyes. 

Despite herself, Tataru seems, or acts, as cheerful as ever. "It's the Warrior of Darkness!" Tataru exclaims. "What are you doing up at this hour?"

A lump is stuck in his throat. He looks to the windows to see that the sunrise has not yet set in. Is it worse to tell the truth or pretend that nothing strange is happening?

Finally, he says: "I could ask the same of you!"

Tataru returns him a curious look, tilting her head. "You already know the answer to that, silly," she says. "In fact, it was by your request that I even woke up early to fill out delivery reports for you!"

Tataru holds out a stack of papers with pride, a few falling out of her hands in the process. Admittedly, he should have been able to figure that one out. Yet just because he’s with the Warrior of Darkness at all times doesn’t mean he’s always paying attention.

“Right, right,” Ardbert says. He scratches at the back of his head. “And thank you for that, while we’re on the subject. You wouldn’t happen to know if anyone else is awake, would you?”

She pauses, pensive. “Not that I’m aware, no,” Tataru says. “Why, did something happen? You look a little pale.”

Before he can respond, a twinge of pain washes over him, and he lurches to the ground, clutching his head in his hands. The rest of the papers fall from Tataru’s hands, her arms flailing in panic.

_ Ardbert?  _

The Warrior of Darkness' voice comes to him, soft, subdued yet stinging sharp. Usually, when he hears the Warrior of Darkness’ voice, it comes to him like a fierce tide, a wave that he’s submerged in. This time, however, it’s distant, lost in the harsh winds.

_ Gods, you're awake,  _ Ardbert’s shoulders slump as he sighs. He takes a second to crawl back onto his feet. _ Don’t give me a fright like that again. _

_ I,  _ and silence lingers between them,  _ I have a few questions, I guess you could say. Obviously, I know where we are. It’s the ‘why’ that I’m curious about. _

“Is everything alright?” Tataru says again.

That snaps Ardbert back to attention. How does the Warrior of Darkness do this so often, splitting their attention between two conversations at the same time?

_ Can you move your hands, your fingers? _

_ Right now, I can’t do anything. _

Something deep within, grabbing and tugging at his chest, pulling him back into the depths that he came from. He knows the Warrior of Darkness is pushing through, he can feel their presence from behind, from all around him.

And then, with one last shock wave, the Warrior of Darkness is back. One knee, still on the floor, sweating bullets and slippery palms.

_ I don't know what happened this morning, _ Ardbert tells the Warrior of Darkness. He's back now to his usual perch, absorbed in the aether of their soul, an observer.

“I'm sorry about that Tataru, sorry to worry you,” the Warrior of Darkness says with a yawn. “I think I need to get more rest.”


	28. no more goodbyes (interlude)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ➤ reminisce: to recall past experiences, events, etc.

Do you remember the first time you met him? Of course you do, because in those days, you were enemies and he was out to kill you. He slew Ravana like it was child’s play and you still weren’t sure whether to call what you saw the work of a god or a ghost.

In those days you were younger, younger still than you are now, though not without your fair share of loss. Not without your fair share of bloodshed. You followed in the wake of the Dragonsong war, of a pulsing eye and revenge thousands of years in the making.

He smirks at you, possessed of the devil’s vitality. His soul is in tact, preserved from a pact born in blood and darkness. That axe in his hands looks like one you wield once. Years past, but the wounds of Carteneau are still fresh in your heart.

Is this how it feels to look into someone’s eyes and know that you could have been one and the same? In another lifetime, though not as far removed from yours as you care to admit. You see shades of yourself in his weary eyes, in the clenched fists that cling tightly around the grip of his axe, the desperation of a last resort. Even if, in those days, you did not know that you and him were possessed of the same soul, you knew one thing for certain:

You too would do anything to save your Star. Even if it costs you your life.

Do you remember the last gift he gave you? Of course you do, because in those moments, you felt your hearts become one in the same.   
  



	29. from dravania with love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ➤ irenic: peaceful or conciliatory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **content warning(s): mentions of past parental neglect and/or abuse.**

[ _P_ _age from the personal diary of Riyeh Yhezra, unknown date during the Seventh Astral Era. Fragments recovered following the wake of the Eighth Umbral Calamity._

 _Begin Excerpt._ ]

Dear Mother,

Despite everything between us, I felt it only appropriate to address this letter to you, in light of the subject matter. I have a story to tell you before I die. A story of the last time I ever betrayed you while you were still breathing. 

It happened when I met a Hyuran hunter shadowing one of the outposts of the Yhezra clan’s territory. Though I had not stepped foot inside for quite some time, at least two months into my exile, the nostalgia that drew me around its borders could not be stopped.

Had I not looked closer, I might have mistaken their black armor in between the mountainous terrain as a clump of dirt. Then I realized, and I dropped to my knees in a frenzy of panic so unlike myself that I feared I was possessed. I shook their body, their face. Finally, after a few minutes, the hunter stirred back to consciousness. They had a flustered look on their face, clearly surprised to be carried squarely on my shoulders.

We eventually set up camp in Tailfeather, tired of sneaking in between the plight of the Gnath and the native Dravanians flying overhead. I found out that night that their name was Ain, a sellsword by trade. Appropriately, I would give them my name, my origin. Two names between us and not a single gil of value.

In between the drunken, sleepless nights we spent together, Ain whispered, slurred more like it, about a rumor that soon the conflict between the Gnath and the Dravanians will end. And soon after, the Ishgardians will follow.

"What kind of idiot would get between a dragon and a Gnath?" I said, my voice a low growl. "In between a dragon and an Ishgardian, for that matter?"

Ain shifted, their eyes turned dull like a piece of slate. "Brave souls who dare to hope for a better future," they said. The intensity of their voice was almost enough to draw me back to sobriety. 

I thought of you: you and your hatred for the Hyurs' incompetence. And while they are indeed incompetent at times, Ain especially, I did not laugh that night because part me believed that Ain was right. The part of me that rejected everything you ever taught me.

It's only natural, is it not, that children of war walk a world of bloodstained soil? That's what you would have told me; there's no changing the misery of the world. Later, when we were sober again, I would learn that Ain was a child of war as well, a nexus between the Black Shroud and Gyr Abania, swept away from one home to the next in order to survive.

I thought of you: and the last words you ever hissed out at me, between blood red lips. The twins had been dismissed from the Matriarch's room, even the ever-respectable Nahmi was not allowed to see. We were alone, nothing else in the world between your eyes and mine.

"Hope is for the weak," you said. "To be strong is to seize your destiny in between two firm palms."

You meant to say that strength is forged in battle and bloodshed. You grabbed onto my palm and squeezed it tightly. I remember your claws digging into my skin, the red speckled across my flesh like scattered stars.

And when you let go of my hand, you asked me: "What is it that you plan on being, boy? A weakling or a warrior?"

I said nothing. My head bowed, the veil of silence so thick between us. 

It took me years to find the answer, or at least admit to myself of something I already knew. If being a warrior meant that I would die fighting for a clan I never believed in, then I would rather be weak.

If being strong meant that you and I were one in the same, I'd rather be weak.

Love,

Riyeh.

_[End excerpt.]_


	30. heart heavy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ➤ paternal: characteristic of or befitting a father; fatherly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'paternal' ended up becoming 'parental' more than anything. but you know, the vibe is there.

“Something urgent?”

Lyna stops the Warrior of Darkness in the Exedra. A familiar sight of the Crystarium salute. The Warrior of Darkness nods and returns her one.

“Not quite, _urgent_ ,” Lyna says. “But I thought you might like to hear it.”

This’ll be a treat, the Warrior of Darkness thinks.

Ryne gave her a hug, Lyna says, and she says it with the same fervent intensity as the arrival of a sin eater. She starts motioning with her hands—as though the Warrior of Darkness has never seen a _hug_ before—and her face twists with confusion.

Lyna’s story begins in the Wandering Stairs; despite her youth, Ryne is often wont to roam and chat with the barmaids, a welcome companion amidst long bouts of silence. This time, however, she is alone, staring aimlessly into the face of a glass of water.

As the Captain approaches, the barmaids turn in unison. A polite bow, a slight acknowledgement.

Ryne notices Lyna and jumps in shock, the glass of water spilling all over the table in her flustered state. 

Lyna kneels down, until she’s eye-level with Ryne. “Is something the matter?”

There’s something on Ryne’s tongue that won’t leave, won’t be set free no matter how hard she tries. All of a sudden, Ryne’s breath grows shallow, her eyes pearlescent and wet with tears.

“Can I,” Ryne pauses, taking in a deep breath. “Can I give you a hug?”

Lyna snaps back up, standing. She hesitates a bit, more out of shock than anything else. "Of course you can, Ryne," she says.

A leap from her seat, a jump against Lyna that nearly knocks her off her feet. Ryne’s fingers find purchase in the chain mail of her uniform, arms around the latter’s waist and head buried in Lyna’s torso. 

“She’s been through a lot,” Lyna tells the Warrior of Darkness. “And saying goodbye to her first of family has taken an unimaginable toll.”

The Warrior of Darkness frowns, crossing their arms. “I wish she wouldn’t be so insistent on smiling for me all the time,” they say. “It’s good to cry every once in a while.”

Today, Ryne’s not hard to spot, eyes lost in the light of the nearby Aetheryte. She’ll notice them in due time, give them her usual enthusiastic wave and rush over, telling them all about her day. And the Warrior of Darkness will wave back, jogging in time to meet her halfway.

“Hey, kiddo,” the Warrior of Darkness begins. They walk alongside Ryne just as night is settling comfortably in the sky. “Just remember that you can always talk to me if you need to, okay? And that includes having a shoulder to cry on.”

 _She's been through a_ _lot._

Tonight, her head is leaning against their torso, and one hand rustling Ryne’s hair. The Warrior of Darkness feels her body tremble against them, shaking from her tears.

“Don’t think that they’ll ever forget about you,” the Warrior of Darkness says. “A promise is a promise; you're one of us, until the end.”


	31. by the light of this star (we are laid to rest)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ➤ splinter: split or broken off from the main body.

_[The following has been recovered from a set of personal correspondence, written by Azem, the Traveler and the Fourteenth seat of the Convocation. It has been ascribed with a date, though such letters are illegible. The handwriting is messy, cramped as words flow together with no sense of rhythm or pace. As Azem was wont to do._

_Begin excerpt:]_

I write not for the benefit of any Convocation members other than myself, who before this lifetime had lived as [ _the stain of a name, a name that has long been discarded_ ]. Such are a recollection of recent memories. Memories that belong to my entire being, even the parts that you would not consider as such.

Do not call upon [ _a series of names are burnt into the paper, scribbled out ashes until they are illegible,_ ] nor tell them of my betrayal. There is that which I long for, far beyond the reach of the Final Days.

Here is but of a glimpse of it;

I—that is to say, the fragment of myself given the epithet of the Warrior of Darkness—sit in the Exedra, a beating heart for the Crystarium. Even if you would not agree, the Crystarium is not unlike that of Amaurot, an impressive structure persisting through the willpower of its citizens. Indeed, the Crystal Tower’s winding spire reminds me of our own towering heights. The rest of the Crystarium bathes in its light, a radiant halo framing the crown of the city.

A young woman is sitting next to the Warrior of Darkness, eating a sweet pastry they bought for her with some spare gil in their pocket. She looks at them, powdered sugar littered all over her face and the two share a heartfelt laugh. Together with her, the Warrior of Darkness is looking upon their work with fondness, no doubt, for this a world saved, a world preserved from your Rejoining.

In days long past, centuries long past, I remember I spoke to Lahabrea after I returned from an excursion. His eyes, piercing and unflinching as ever, examined me with purpose. He asked me for what joy I found in my exploration, when all I could ask for already existed in the pockets of Amaurot. When all I could ask for, I could make of my own will.

I still don't know what he expected me to say. Had I been quicker on my feet, I could have given Lahabrea the profound answer he expected of my station. But instead, I told him: "Because I think it's fun."

And then he stared at me, stared right through me, as if I was younger than even young Elidibus and all the while less well-spoken than he. Lahabrea simply shrugged, finding it useless to continue this any further.

[ _A large splotch of ink spills upon the paper. Azem seemed to be of the mind that it’s better left this way._ ]

I can’t help but chuckle at this: that in averting your Rejoining, the Warrior of Darkness has found themself a new friend. You may have forgotten that Ardbert too is a piece of my soul, even aiding in your Ardor at one point, albeit without knowing what he was getting into. I laugh at the circumstances only because I'm reminded that he inherited the recklessness of his predecessor. Ardbert grew to have a heart too big for his own body and—stars above, forbid that my musings where what delivered the man to an early grave—a fate destined for self-sacrifice. 

In days long past, centuries long past, I waved for Emet-Selch while he was busy with a group of Convocation speakers. My posture must have caught his attention, walking with purpose while I cradled a delivery in my arms.

He approached and I held out my hands, containing a small, self-made concept inspired by the creatures I encountered on faraway isles. It was amateurish, an oversized head, exaggerated beak and tiny, stubby wings that could barely carry the weight of its own body. 

Regardless, I really liked it. "It's quite cute, is it not?" I said.

Emet-Selch raises an eyebrow. "Cute?"

Admittedly, I should have known what to expect. This was a look I received often, the look Emet-Selch gave me when I was wasting his time. He huffed and rolled his eyes. As Emet-Selch left to return to the Convocation speakers, he told me, with a wave of his hand: "Very well then, have fun with your 'cute' concept."

[ _Azem doodles a chocobo and an amaro cuddling together in the corner of the page._ ]

Truly, I was overjoyed when the Warrior of Darkness and Ardbert went to visit Seto. Why is it that the Convocation always took issue with my creature-like concepts?

Now, as I think of Ardbert, I wonder if this might have been a reason for which Elidibus was drawn to his corpse. It would not occur to him that doing so would leave a part of my body toyed with, degraded, ultimately destroyed. More likely, he simply didn't care. To the Unsundered, the flesh of incomplete mortals is never sacred. It is theirs to bend as they see fit.

[ _Azem diverts from the neat organization of their letter. The following passage is written hastily, slanting as though the words are falling towards the ground._ ]

I know your lot will never feel remorse towards them. But regardless of what you think of my Sundered pieces, they are important to me. Stars above, I have even been afforded a home in the solace of their heart, and such a grand heart it is.

[ _Azem scribbles the same phrase over and over again, for five lines._ ]

**Live for tomorrow, live for tomorrow, live for tomorrow, live for tomorrow, live for tomorrow.**

**Love for tomorrow.**

[ _Afterwards, they return to the usual structure of their letter. Several other passages have been scribbled out._ ]

For all that Elidibus did not remember, nostalgia yet lingered in his heart. If he still thinks of me, I’m honored. My ‘ever refreshing perspective’ has not changed since those days, has it?

So much does change, and will continue for eternity. The Warrior of Darkness fights so that I may never become whole again, so that I may instead find happiness among my broken pieces.

It sounds like an oxymoron, doesn’t it? Broken happiness. Remember well that I write not for the benefit of the Convocation, but for the benefit of that which remains of me. For the Warrior of Darkness, for Ardbert. I write to honor that which they love, those which they have loved and lost.

[ _Azem leaves space for twelve other names, the fragments of them which have already returned, and the fragments of them which never will. They leave a note that each and every one will never be forgotten._ ]

Would that these pieces of myself could see me, I shall smile with pride, with the blessing of having ever been a part of them. Or of them having ever been a part of me, I suppose. 

One way or another, that matters not. They carry on forth just the same, striving towards a future I never could have foreseen. Aye, and does the sun rise again to another beautiful morning.

_[End excerpt.]_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i felt really inspired for the last day. if you're reading this now, thanks for enjoying my silly little drabble collection!
> 
> let's have fun again next year!


End file.
